


Warning Shot

by Huggle



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Restraints, Torture, protective Carter, protective Finch, protective Fusco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggle/pseuds/Huggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turnaround is fair play; now it's Root turn to give Harold a warning.  She does so in brutal fashion, using John to deliver it. Harold deals with the aftermath with some stout support from Fusco, Carter and Bear, and decides it's time he dealt with his nemesis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There were enough of them to force handcuffs onto him and then manhandle him into the other room. The light went on, and the bath was full, and John braced his feet against the rim as they tried to shove him in.

He heard Finch’s voice in his ear, at first demanding to know what was happening. Then he was busy promising John that help was coming. _Hold on_.

He tumbled into the tub hard, glancing his head against the side as the cold water shocked his breath away. But they didn’t shove him under, not yet.

Root smirked down at him. “It would be so easy,” she said. “So easy to just have them hold you under and watch you struggle until you couldn’t anymore. But I don’t hate you, John. How could I hate you when you were so valiant, when you got hurt for me? I don’t hate either of you.”

John tried to get a read on her, how far this was going to go – just trying to scare him? To prove she could do what she wanted? There were quicker, easier ways to kill him. But then she was a psychopath. 

She crouched down at the end of the tub, where he supposed she’d have a good view of the proceedings.

“If I hated you both, I’d have had them do this in front of him.”

With no further warning, they pushed him under the surface.

But she didn’t hate them, so it was all about the message. After all, John had warned her. So it must have seemed fair for her to warn them.

Repeatedly. Four, five, six times? He’d lost count, trying to outlast them as they held him down until the last possible second and then hauled him up again to breathe before they started over.

Sometimes, when they let him up for air, Root would squeeze between them. She rubbed his back while he tried to get his breathing under control, brushed his wet hair back from his face and even hugged him against her at one point.

“Oh, try to hold on, John. Just once more, can you do that for me? I know, I know it’s hard. Just take a breath and hold it. And I promise, once more and we’re done. Harold probably has someone on the way for you right now.”

He wondered if he had the time and strength to ram his forehead against the weak spot, just above the bridge of her nose. If he managed to do it hard enough, he could probably kill her. 

But as if she’d thought of that, she caught hold of his jaw and turned his face towards her. “Oh, you’re so easy to read. But what do you think would happen, John, if you did somehow manage to hurt me? Well, let me tell you. Either this happens to you, or my friends will go collect Harold and he can take your place.”

He jerked his head away from her, fighting down a snarl when she giggled at him, like they’d met in a bar and she was flirting.

“So, like I said – just once more?”

She made them wait until he nodded.

When they were finished with him, Root had them put him on his knees so he wasn’t in danger of slipping under the surface on his own. 

“You’re such a good boy, John.” She patted his head. “Such a shame Harold found you first – he really should take better care of you. I wouldn’t have let you end up in situations like these. Well maybe one day, there’ll be a transfer of custody.”

She led her men out. John didn’t spare her a glance. He put all his focus into evening out his breathing, ignoring the dull thud in his head and trying to make sure he stayed conscious.

That was how Fusco found him.

From Fusco’s curse to how desperately he grabbed him, hauled him out of the water, John had an idea what he must have looked like.

He was glad Harold hadn’t come along.


	2. Chapter 2

Fusco turned off the siren about three blocks out, but left the light on until he was pulling up outside the building. Maybe Finch’s muscle should get some muscle, the amount of times he’d had to pull his ass out of the fire.

And each time it was preceded by a phone call, from Glasses himself; go there, our mutual friend needs assistance. Rarely more than that, but Fusco was good at reading people. He knew fear and desperation when he heard it.

He was a little worried himself, to be fair. No point denying it – maybe they’d started off a little rocky, but he’d got used to turning around at unexpected moments to find Reese looming over him. He and the little guy – they kind of reminded him of his sense of purpose when he’d first joined the force. Only they had bigger guns and snappy tailoring.

And he’d lost his way about the same time as he was given a certain person as his rabbi.

Anyway, when he got a call from Reese’s boss, it usually involved a rescue and some on scene first aid. Fusco wondered what he was going to have to deal with this time. 

As he reached the door of the building, some guys came out with a pretty girl in the middle. They were big, five of them, and Fusco had to wait until they cleared the door.

Instead of holding it for him, the last one let it go.

“Hey,” Fusco protested.

The girl was quick – she darted back and caught it before it could close and lock him out.

“Sorry, they don’t have any manners unless I tell them to.”

Fusco shrugged, suddenly a little embarrassed at how intently she was looking at him and wrong footed by the unexpected courtesy. “It’s ok, thanks.”

“Sure.” She smiled at him, and it was kind of sweet but at the same time.... He had to look away until she stepped back and he could get inside.

On the way to the elevators, he did look back and they were all getting into a van. She was watching him, that same smile on her face. She made shooing gestures with her hands, as if hurrying him on.....

Fuck.

The van sped away, but Fusco ignored it. Glasses could trace it if he was interested. He pounded the call button for the elevator and thought briefly about the stairs, then cut that idea loose. They’d find him dead of a coronary on the fourth floor.

But as he waited for the car to reach the ground floor, all he could think of was the size of those guys. Reese wasn’t tiny but if he’d held his own then Fusco wouldn’t now be considering trying to run up several flights of stairs.

He waited on the elevator. Better late than never.

::::

The door to the apartment was closed, but not locked. Fusco drew his gun and nudged the door open. No point in being stupid about it. 

Every light in the place seemed to be on, and he got it – a very basic way of showing him quickly where Reese _wasn’t_. 

The harsh coughing told him where he probably _was_.

He shouldered open the bathroom door. Reese’s head snapped around at the sudden arrival and Fusco took it all in, a quick snapshot making it pretty damn clear what had happened.

“Son of a bitch,” he managed. He holstered his gun and sprang to the side of the tub, locked his arms around Reese and hauled him out. The other guy was bigger than him anyway, but bigger and hurt and soaking wet was all more than he could handle, and they tumbled onto the floor.

He turned them enough so that Reese didn’t land on him because this was going to be hard enough without bruised ribs to boot.

“Alright, you alright?” He got stiffly to his knees and turned Reese over, helped him sit up. His breathing was harsh, hiccupping. “Dammit. John!”

“I’m okay. Can you get these off?”

He twisted, showing Lionel the handcuffs around his wrists.

“Yeah, sure, sorry. What the hell did they want? How long....”

“Lionel. Cuffs. Please?”

Fusco cursed himself under his breath. “Don’t suppose they left the keys?”

Reese gave him an abrasive look but it was mitigated by the shudder that almost tipped him over.

“Suppose not.” Fusco opened the small leather wallet containing his lock picks and set to work freeing John. 

Reese’s wrists were torn and bloody once he managed to get the cuffs off. He’d put up quite a fight.

Fusco supposed he would have as well. But Reese didn’t move at first. Maybe he’d lost feeling?

“It’s ok, they’re off.” Fusco tossed them in front of him, into a corner.

“I know. It’s going to take a minute before I can....” He trailed off with a grimace.

“Yeah, right, sorry.” Fusco rested his hands tentatively on Reese’s shoulders, unsure whether to offer help or back off. “Look, can you stand?” Clearly offering him a hand up was out of the question.

Reese reached forward gingerly and tried to brace himself with his hands. Fusco wasn’t surprised when that didn’t quite work. It had taken him maybe twenty five minutes to get here – presuming that Finch had called in the alarm straight away that was twenty five minutes plus the time in the elevator which Reese had spent with his arms pinned tightly back.

And most of that time, he’d probably been fighting like a demon to get free.

Yeah, his shoulders would be spasming too right now.

“Ok. Just don’t try to bite me or anything.” Lionel stood at Reese’s side. He bent over and reached down and across Reese’s chest and so he could grab his hip. On the other side he did the same thing, and it was difficult but he used his weight to counter Reese’s height. 

The yelp of pain showed the movement probably hurt Reese as much as the embarrassment of being lifted onto his feet by him, but he’d have to live with it.

His phone went, suddenly. Finch eased Reese against the wall, held him there and answered the call.

“I got him,” he said.

“A little more detail, please, Detective.”

Fusco looked at Reese. He could see the unspoken command there, but fuck it. Guy was going to need some care after this.

“Bitch tried to drown him. He’s roughed up. Where can I take him?”

The silence made him wonder if they’d been cut off at first. Then he held the sharp inhalation on the other end. When Finch spoke, Fusco winced at his tone.

“11 Foreman Street. I’ll be there before you.”

Fusco hung up. “Don’t even try to lecture me,” he warned Reese. “Come on.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Bitch tried to drown him_.

Finch dragged his focus back with an effort, acknowledging Fusco’s words even as he pushed them down. It was done, it had happened – all that mattered now was anticipating what care John required and how to most efficiently provide it.

“11 Foreman Street,” he told Fusco. “I’ll be there before you.”

He hung up, and limped to the stacks. The third shelf in the first section, eighth book along. He took it down and opened it to reveal a hollowed out square with a set of keys. Harold took them and put the book back. He turned to find Bear standing there, lead dangling from his mouth.

“Perhaps this time you should stay here,” Harold considered. He would have much to do, but Bear had no doubt picked up something was wrong. Still, John liked having the dog around, took some comfort from it.

And if there was any trouble before John was able to defend himself again, Harold was confident that with Bear’s help he could keep John safe.

“Very well,” he said, and took the lead from the dog. He clipped it on, paused only to grab his coat, and then went downstairs. He put Bear in the back of the car, and headed north towards the address he’d given Fusco.

Since he and Reese had started working together to protect or impede the numbers generated by the machine, he’d seen fit to acquire safe houses more in line with what he’d approximated their requirements to be. So he had some that were simply for a time out. Some for supporting cover identities. Some for numbers or their families that he needed to hide while he was trying to relocate them.

And some were for when things had gone badly wrong and either he or John – and it had mostly been John so far – were hurt and required a place to recover with that in mind.

Foreman Street was just such an address. Secure, private, well stocked. 

Finch dialled while he drove, relieved when the call was answered in three rings.

“Hello?” the voice of an older man said.

“Hello, Dr. Bailey,” Finch said. “I hope you remember me. We met once, briefly, in Detroit.”

It had been brief, and more than a year ago, but eventful – so Harold hoped it wouldn’t take too long for recognition to take place.

“Mr Wren. Yes, I do. It has been a while.”

“Doctor, I hope you’ll forgive if I forego any pleasantries, but....”

“You did say at the time you might take advantage of the goodwill you’d built up with me. What do you need?”

“A house call,” Finch said, and went on to briefly explain what had happened. There were certain details he had to omit, but once Bailey had examined John he would know what to do.

“I can be there in ten minutes,” Bailey promised. “Try not to worry, Mr. Wren. I’ll take care of your friend.”

 _I’ll try_ , Harold thought and ended the call. He risked a quick glance at Bear; the dog was lying on the back seat, watching him back. Tense, no doubt picking up on Harold’s own feelings. 

“You heard Dr. Bailey,” Harold told the dog. “No need to worry. Fusco is with John and we’ll be there soon enough.”

He sped up in time to beat a red light, cutting four or five minutes off his time.


	4. Chapter 4

James Bailey put down the photo album when the phone rang. Some people might have thought it morbid, that he spent most of his evenings with the large gilt embossed book, but perhaps those people didn’t have the happy memories to look back on that he did.

Of course perhaps memories were not all those people had, their only remaining connection to those they had loved and still did. But could no longer watch coming into the room, or simply dial their number to speak to them.

He picked up the handset, and steadied his voice. “Hello?”

“Hello, Dr. Bailey,” the man said. “I hope you remember me. We met once, briefly, in Detroit.”

It had been brief, and it had been a year ago – would be one year and eleven days, in fact, come Wednesday. He had a moment to be astonished that the man could imagine he would be that easily forgotten. What had come before and immediately after had permanently fixed those few days – and everyone he’d encountered during them – in his memory.

He might sometimes open the fridge and forget what he was looking for, but the important things were never lost to him.

“Mr Wren. Yes, I do. It has been a while.”

He couldn’t ignore the sense of urgency in Wren’s voice, and listened as he detailed what had happened. Of course, there was more to what had happened that what Wren was telling him. But given his previous encounter with the man, James wasn’t surprised. And since time was definitely a factor, he could forgive the abridged version of events.

He knew the address Wren gave him, the part of town anyway. After he hung up, he grabbed his bag from the cupboard and pulled on a coat. It was a chill night out. He hoped that whoever was looking after Mr. Wren’s friend had the sense to get him indoors and keep him warm. 

James went downstairs, and the doorman glanced curiously at the doctor’s bag in his hand.

“You practicing again, doc?”

James smiled. “Best to keep my hand in; and I’ve had a call for help from a friend.”

The doorman flagged him down a cab. James took it to the end of the street that the address was on, and once it had gone walked the rest of the way to the door. He looked up to see a curious dog standing in the light from the hall, peering down at him through the glass panel.

It gave a low snarl as he put his foot on the first step leading to the entrance.

“Bear,” a voice, not Mr. Wren’s, called from inside. 

The dog glanced back, then retreated inside.

That, James supposed, was as good an invitation as he was going to get. He climbed the steps and went in.


	5. Chapter 5

“If you hold me any tighter, people are going to think this is the end of a date,” John said. 

Fusco glared at him. “You want to haul yourself to the front door?” Where the hell was the boss anyway? So much for being there before...

The door opened, and Finch was there, framed in the light from the hall.

Bear shot past him, down the steps and did the dog version of hovering next to Reese. He turned an accusing glare at Fusco.

“Hey, I didn’t do it,” Lionel protested, and then wondered what it said for his sanity that he was defending himself to the suit’s dog.

Finch summoned the dog back, and came down to help him get John inside.

“I have a doctor coming,” he promised. “He should be here shortly. Until then, we need to get you stripped and into warm clothing.”

John gave a half hearted shrug. “I may have a concussion. Not sure.”

They got him inside, and Fusco kicked the door shut behind them. The apartment was flash, to say the least. But the hall was narrow, and Fusco was stronger than Finch, so the other man went ahead guiding them through the living room and into a bedroom off to the right. There were towels and some sweats there.

“You’ll have to allow for some infringement of your privacy, Mr. Reese,” Finch said, and motioned Fusco to get him to sit down on the bed.

Between them both, with the dog standing in the doorway keeping watch, they got Reese out of his clothes. It wasn’t easy – they clung to him like a second skin, and the more layers removed, the more it became obvious how badly he’d been handled.

Wide bruises in the shape of hand and finger marks were showing already on his shoulders, arms, legs. There was a particularly vivid imprint on his abdomen, and Fusco didn’t want to think about the kind of force that would have been used to make that kind of mark.

Half way through changing him, Reese sort of zoned out on them, and before Fusco could do anything, Finch had slapped him.

“Hey,” Fusco said, sharply, and made to catch Finch’s hand.

Reese suddenly had his wrist in an iron grip, and Lionel hissed in pain. 

“Don’t do that,” he warned.

“John, it’s fine. I believe Fusco was only trying to protect you.” Harold’s hand carefully pried John’s fingers opened.

“I need to stay conscious,” Reese said, and then started to tilt sideways.

“Sure,” Fusco said. He caught hold of Reese, arresting his slump onto the bed. He pushed him back upright, and snapped his fingers a few times in front of John’s face. “In that case, do I get to hit you?”

John glared at him, but it lacked the usual sting. “You get to try.”

Harold picked up one of the towels. He considered passing another to Fusco, but John would probably object to being handled in such a more intimate way by him let alone the detective. Still, he had to try.

“Perhaps you could keep an eye out for Dr. Bailey,” he suggested to Fusco, hoping to both spare John’s embarrassment and increase the likelihood of getting his co-operation. “He’s an older man, late sixties/early seventies? A little over five ten, white hair.”

Fusco glanced at the towel, nodded a little too eagerly. Clearly, the prospect of helping dry John off didn’t sit too well with him either. “Yeah. Long as that dog of yours doesn’t try to eat me.”

Once he’d left, Harold decided asking would get him a no, so he simply starting towel drying John’s hair, and then moved onto his neck, back, chest.

To his surprise, John let him. But when he started to kneel down, the better to get at John’s legs and feet, Reese caught his arms.

“Harold, I can do that.”

“Without keeling over? I think one head injury per day is more than sufficient.”

“And I don’t think your back is up to hauling me up some steps and crouching in front of me in the same day. Unless you want this doctor to have two patients.”

Harold relented, but he hovered as John crossed one leg over the other, and dried himself off as best he could. Getting him into the sweat shirt and jog pants took a combined effort, but they managed.

“Can you lie back and keep awake?” Harold asked.

John stretched out. “Without you hitting me.”

“Well, it was an opportunity that might never come again. It’s not the first time I’ve felt such an impulse.”

From the hall, John heard Bear scrabbling eagerly to the door and Fusco’s heavy footfalls behind him. 

“Doctor’s here,” Lionel called back. “Furball, get out of the way.”

“Bear,” John called out. A moment later, the dog was at his side, shoving his head under John’s hand. John petted him, made a low soothing noise.

Harold turned away, and went out to greet Dr. Bailey.


	6. Chapter 6

Fusco kept back while Finch led the old guy to John but he didn’t stay so far back that he couldn’t take a hand if he needed to.

He tailed them down the hall and then wondered if Finch’s paranoia was catching. 

Anyway, Finch seemed to be content with the guy, and that dog would tear out the throat of anybody looking at either Reese or Finch the wrong way. 

Even so, he stayed close.

Finch stayed in the room, while Bailey set his bag down next to the bed, and introduced himself to John. Fusco stayed just outside the door, leaning on the jamb, and watched the man work.

He had a gentle, quiet bedside manner, which was probably just as well. It kind of made Fusco want to go track that bitch down, when he saw Reese flinch at an unexpected touch from the doctor. But Finch was there, saying something so quiet it was almost under his breath.

Reese heard it though, and after that there was no more flinching. 

He stepped back, out into the hall and towards the door. Taking out his phone, he dialled Carter’s number while he watched the street. Unlikely that woman, whoever she was, would have followed them here. If she’d wanted to finish this, she would have, and he’d have found Reese floating dead in the tub.

He pushed that thought away hard, fiercely grateful it didn’t turn out like that, and that he hadn’t needed to tell Finch he’d got there too late.

“Yeah? Fusco? It’s after midnight, this better be damn good. I mean life or death, Fusco.”

When he didn’t answer right away, he could almost see her sitting up, all sleepiness driven out of her. “Lionel. Your kid ok?”

“Yeah, Carter, he’s fine. There was some trouble. But he’s fine, he’s going to be ok, I swear.”

“Where are you?”

He gave her the address, and she hung up on him without another word.

Fusco put his phone away as Finch came out into the hall. He gave him a questioning glance.

“You were updating Detective Carter, I presume?”

Fusco nodded. “If she found out about this tomorrow instead of tonight, she’d probably shoot me.”

But Finch just nodded his approval. “I’d be grateful for a little extra help in making sure he’s safe tonight.”

Bailey came out of the room. He didn’t look like he was about to call 911, so Fusco let himself relax just a little.

“I’m happy with his lungs and his heart rate,” he told Finch. “Despite hitting his head, he seems reasonably lucid. Most of the warning signs you need to look out for are just common sense. Wake him every two hours. If he seems disorientated, if he develops a cough or shallow breathing, if it seems more lie panting, or there’s any bloody sputum, get him to the nearest ER straight away. Failing that, keep him warm and settled. 

“I’ve cleaned his wrists up, and left some cream and dressings on the bedside cabinet for you. Try to keep them dry. The bruising will likely cause him some pain tomorrow – just give him some general painkillers, possibly ice them if it gets too bad. Anything else worrying you, you can call me at any time.”

Finch thanked him, and showed the man out. He stayed staring out at the sidewalk for a moment.

“Will you sit with him?” he asked Fusco, without looking around.

“Sure,” Fusco said. “You going somewhere?”

Finch didn’t answer. Fusco watched him limp back up the hall and into the living room. He followed a little way, watched him turn on a computer and sit down. He didn’t do anything for a while, just stared at the screen.

Then he started to type, clicking furiously at the keys.

Fusco shrugged. Coping mechanism, he guessed, and went back to sit with Reese.

John was turned onto his side, under the blankets, but he started to sit up when Fusco came in.

“Just me,” Lionel said, unnecessarily.

Reese settled down again. “Thanks. For earlier.”

Fusco pulled the easy chair over from the corner and made himself comfortable. He ignored the wide eyed look he got. “This would be where I tell you that you scared him tonight. But Carter’s on her way, so I’ll leave the mom talk to her.”

Reese sounded pissed. “You didn’t need to tell her about this, Fusco.”

“No? My ass on the line, pal, if she found out I was involved in this and I didn’t tell her. Don’t you think people worry about you?”

He didn’t realise he’d raised his voice until Finch was standing in the doorway. “I said sit with him, Detective, not remonstrate with him. He’s hardly up to it and believe me when I say, he’ll only make you pay for it when he’s better.”

It sounded like the voice of experience, so Fusco sat back and hoped Carter got there soon so he could pass her the baton.


	7. Chapter 7

Carter hung up the phone. She sat for a moment, taking stock. Breaking down what Fusco had said. Focusing on two words that told her enough, but not everything.

_He’s fine_.

That would keep her going until she got to them. 

She got dressed in a hurry, throwing on slacks, a tee and a hoodie that made her waist holster discreet. She went through to Taylor’s room, woke him on the second attempt.

“Come on, baby, I need you to wake up. I want you to go next door to Mrs Anderson’s, ok?

Taylor wiped sleep out of his eyes. He pushed himself upright. “Mom? You ok? Something’s wrong.”

Because why else would she be dressed and rousing him after midnight. “It’s ok, I just got to go help a friend.”

“Detective Fusco?” He was alert now, wanting to know. 

She ran her hand through his hair, aware how quickly he was growing up and knowing suddenly the fear her mother had warned her about – that growing up could mean growing away, but that was how these things were meant to go.

Just not yet, she prayed.

“Do you remember John?”

Taylor nodded. “Mom, is he ok?”

“I’ll make sure of it,” she said, and kissed his forehead. “I shouldn’t be too long. Get up and get dressed for me, ok? So I can take you next door.”

“Not a kid, mom,” he complained. He hugged her. “If you’re going then he’ll be ok.”

She blinked a couple of times, got herself together, and hugged him back hard before stepping away. “That’s my boy. Be fast, then come through.”

He was out again in moments, t-shirt and jeans pulled on and the laces loose in his sneakers. She chapped on Mrs Anderson’s door, made her apologies. She didn’t kiss her son again, despite wanting to, because he had his pride.

Carter drove with her emergency lights flashing, chirping the siren when she got to red lights or risky intersections, only cutting both off went she was a block out. Parking was surprisingly easy – she wondered if Finch had something to do with that, man seemed to have a way of thinking ahead that was almost freakish – and so she was able to get to the front door fast.

A dog barked once, the sound a little muffled from behind the door. Peering through the glass, she saw John and Harold’s dog running at the door, stopping a few feet out to assume an offensive threat posture. 

Finch appeared at his back, and said something to him. He relented and disappeared into a door to the right.

When he let her in, Carter found herself suddenly ready to snap at him. It had been building in her, without her even realising, all the time she’d been getting ready and then driving out here.

But a look at Finch drove it out of her in a second.

“You ok?” she asked.

Finch led her to the door the dog had disappeared through. “He should be fine,” he said to her. “But I’m happier all the same with the additional support. And Fusco would probably like a chance to stretch his legs.”

Before they reached the room, Carter stopped him by gently resting her hand on his arm. “I know he’s fine,” she said, which was a lie, because even though Fusco had sworn it she needed to actually see it. “I asked about you.”

“I shouldn’t have left it this long,” Finch said quietly. “I should have known – she’s like a taunting child. And she enjoyed playing him with too much.”

“Finch. She took you prisoner. She set John up to either get caught or killed. I don’t even know what she did tonight, but from the look of things here I’m not sure I want to. This woman is lots of things, but I don’t think a taunting child is one of them. She needs to be taken care of.”

“I know,” Finch said, and Carter suddenly wanted to continue that conversation – one she’d had many times with John, fruitlessly, but never yet with his boss about how sometimes they should let the police do the job they were paid to. “Perhaps you could relieve Lionel. If he’s awake, I’m sure John will be glad to see you.”

He retreated into the living room, sat down at his desk. Started typing, filling the monitor screen with line upon line of text. 

Carter turned away reluctantly, and stepped into the other room.

Fusco was sitting quietly in the easy chair, watching Reese sleep. He looked up as Carter came in, nodded, and started to get up.

She waved for him to stop, but he stood anyway. 

“Could use some fresh air. Don’t know why watching him sleep makes me want to.” He kept his voice low but didn’t whisper. “Finch fill you in?”

Carter shook her head. “Do I want to know?”

“You’ll need to. Got a feeling we’re sharing baby sitting duties until he’s mobile again.” 

He drew Carter away, nearer the door. He told it fast, basic, from Finch’s call to him reaching the apartment and then to the doctor mostly clearing Reese.

“What the hell is wrong with people? These two can’t run into any normal criminals?” she hissed. Fusco motioned for her to keep it down, but too late. 

“Like Elias?” Reese was sitting up. “You didn’t need to come, Joss.”

“Like I’d have stayed away.” Carter nodded at Fusco, and he stepped out. She heard the front door open and figured he was doing like he’d said, catching some fresh air.

“What about Taylor?”

“He’s with a neighbour. He’ll be okay for a bit. What about you?”

Reese didn’t answer. Carter was kind of ok with that – John would normally have given her what he thought was an honest answer, but that was Snow and his cronies talking, the ones who’d taught John he didn’t have the right not to be ok. 

Slowly, he was coming around with her. Sometimes, she’d actually get the truth or a version of, anyway. But it was an improvement, and she welcomed each time it happened as a deepening of his trust in her.

Given she’d almost gotten him killed, it was astonishing he trusted her at all.

“I’ll take that as a ‘could be better’.” Later, she intended to lecture him about taking back up with him rather than Finch having to send it once he was outnumbered and in deep shit. It’d be pointless, but she’d feel better for having said it. 

“How’s Finch?”

Carter frowned. Good question. “I have a feeling he’s plotting. What? You thought he’d just shrug this off?”

“No. That’s the problem. I don’t want him near her, in contact with her, not at all.”

“And he feels the same about you and her. How did you feel when she took him? What makes you think he’d be any different when she took you?”

“She didn’t take me.”

Carter slapped her hands on her knees and stood up. “John! What is it going to take for you to accept we worry about you? He worries about you. You might be the one running out there to save people or stop them, but we’re all in this together. Do me a solid, ok? Let us worry. I know you do about us.”

He stared sullenly ahead for a moment before sliding back down under the blankets and turning onto his side so he could face her. Carter reached out automatically, and covered his shoulder.

“Do one thing for me?” he asked. His eyes were growing heavy.

“Sure, name it.”

“Watch Finch. I don’t want him doing anything that turns into something.”

“He’s a big boy. You’re the one....” She trailed off. He didn’t need reminding of what he’d been put through.

“Humour me?”

“I’ll try,” was all she could say. Finch would no more tolerate her peering over his shoulder than John would. “Now, sleep. I’ll wake you in a couple.”

He was out before she even finished speaking to him. Carter shook her head at the general stubbornness of men, and these two in particular, before she went out to try and keep an eye on John’s partner in crime.


	8. Chapter 8

Finch was ready when Carter came out. He’d heard some of what she and John had said to each other. He mirrored her sentiments, but there was no rushing John in unlearning what had been indoctrinated into him by his CIA masters.

Removing one programme meant replacing it with another, and he loathed thinking of it in those terms because John was not a machine, not a computer. But all the same he was gradually getting John to accept he had value, worth. It had started that night in the parking garage, when he had come for John despite being told not to.

It was slow progress, but he was nothing if not persistent. Long term projects were something he specialised in, and he had no desire to see Reese exit his life anytime soon.

“I guess it’d be easier if I just cut to it. What are you doing?”

She stood behind him, staring openly at the monitor. Finch let her – Carter was an intelligent woman, but he doubted the basic computer tutelage offered by the NYPD would let her recognise any of the code he was using.

“What I do most days,” he answered. 

She wouldn’t tolerate the evasion, but he didn’t care. He was allowing her to be here to help protect John. He was grateful that she’d come – when Fusco had called her, there had been no doubt that she would come. He had planned to call her himself, in fact, had Lionel not beaten him to it.

But she had no part in this, and part of him railed against her presumption that she had the right to ask, or to press as he expected her to do next.

When she didn’t, he had to admit she surprised him. Instead she sat down on the sofa. It ran parallel to the desk, so to watch him she had to turn and sit awkwardly.

She didn’t.

“John worries about you.”

And there it was. No quizzing, no trying to draw an explanation out of him. Four words and she had him. It hadn’t gained her any information, hadn’t imparted any either, really, on the parts of the conversation he hadn’t heard. But it had effectively fettered him. 

Much as his desire to avenge himself on Root for what she’d done was churning inside of him, there was a need for balance. John didn’t deserve any more stress or pressure, especially just now. On the whole, that was something Harold couldn’t insulate him from. But he could try to mitigate it tonight.

He didn’t want to create a situation where John felt he had to act pre-emptively. That had been the plan tonight, them sending Mrs Lawson to her sister’s so John could wait in the apartment for her son who intended to kill her and raid the apartment for anything to sell so he could pay off his debts.

But as they had been sidelining Mrs Lawson, Root had been doing the same with her son. So when the apartment door had opened later, it had been Root and her henchmen bursting in on John, not Barry Lawson.

He wondered briefly – not because he was sure that he had it in him to care, just then, not with everything so raw and near – what Root had done with the boy. And of course, Mrs Lawson was still at her sister’s probably waiting to find out what had happened. What she should do next.

“Could you do something else for me, detective?” Finch asked.

Carter got up and came over. “What do you need, Finch?”

He wrote out the address of Mrs Lawson’s sister’s house, and the apartment where John had been ambushed by Root. He explained quickly, and Carter asked if he and John would be okay while she and Fusco were away.

Finch assured them they would; they had Bear, and the building was equipped with an advanced security system. Root would not find this place, and he could keep an eye on John until they returned.

Carter left, looking in briefly on John, and promised she and Fusco would be back as soon as they could.

Once they were gone, Harold retreated through several pages of code, and overwrote a line here, a line there.

Once it was implemented, it would be formidable. She wouldn’t be able to counter it, might not even be aware of it. If she did discover it, and tried to follow it back to them it would led her down the rabbit hole and to catastrophic system failure.

Finch stood up, winced at how hard his back ached. He had to breathe through the pain for a minute before he could walk into John’s room.

He was still lying on his side, face dark with some nightmare he was facing in his sleep. 

“Sssh,” Harold said. “You’re safe, John. Bear and I are here. And I’ve taken steps. She’s too clever to get rid of completely – for now at least – but I’ve learned from her. I’ve put out what you would probably call tripwires. I know how she does things now, how she codes. And every time she’s involved in something involving us, or a number, she’ll stumble over one of those wires. And we’ll know she’s there.”

Forewarned was forearmed, after all. And he was suddenly breathless from the depth of malice he bore her. “And it’ll be the last time she gets to lay her hands on either of us.” 

Worthy opponent indeed. She didn’t know what she’d done; it hadn’t been personal after Powell. Infuriating that someone would take such an innocent, dedicated family man and try to destroy him and his loved ones for convenience. Then she had forced him and John to separate, and then put them both at risk. Kidnapping him, forcing him to abandon John to either being caught by the FBI or murdered by HR.

And now this. 

She was wrong about calling him a worthy opponent. It wasn’t a game. She was about to learn that.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any medical inaccuracies.


End file.
